


Adrenaline

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Bakumatsu Rock
Genre: Adrenaline, Blow Jobs, Concerts, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-18 01:28:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2330228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The real reason Hijikata loves concerts, the reason he looks forward to every performance with breathless anticipation, is because Soji /adores/ rock concerts." Hijikata puts post-show adrenaline to good use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adrenaline

Hijikata loves concerts.

There’s an adrenaline rush from being on stage, from being the center of attention for thousands of screaming fans. And there’s a buzz to be had from the music as well, from the way the rock itself seems to burn through his veins until it’s like a tide, sweeping him with it until he joins and blends with something greater than himself. It’s amazing, it’s transcendent; for the time he’s on stage he’s not human but something more, better, stronger and more beautiful and more perfect.

And that is all wonderful, those are all the reasons Hijikata loves performing for his own purposes. But the  _real_  reason he loves concerts, the reason he looks forward to every performance with breathless anticipation, is because Soji  _adores_  rock concerts.

Soji didn’t used to care. He’d leave the stage after a rendition of Heaven’s Song looking cool and calm and  _bored_ , all sharp edges and spitting irritation until even Hijikata wasn’t willing to go near him. But rock leaves him breathless, flushed and sweaty and panting until Hijikata’s mind can only go one direction, and the advantage now is that when Soji catches him staring, his purple eyes are shadowed over almost into black with implicit agreement before Hijikata has even said anything. He doesn’t have to suggest, doesn’t even have to jerk his head to indicate Soji should follow him; Soji even takes the lead down the hallway, past the turn to his own room until it is he who slides the door open, who is first into Hijikata’s room.

“I hope you agree, now, Hijikata-san,” Soji is saying as Hijikata follows him in and eases the screen shut behind him. His loose coat is shifting, but Hijikata can’t see exactly what he’s doing for the cover of the other’s shoulders. “Most of that audience was there for me.”

“Really.” Soji doesn’t move away when Hijikata steps in closer, doesn’t turn to face the other man even when Hijikata reaches out to brush his fingers against the braid in the other’s hair. The plait is going loose, now, jarred out of place by exertion and damp with sweat, streaked darker across the locks that have caught the most moisture so Soji’s hair looks nearly violet instead of silver in the lamplight. Hijikata’s fingers pull the hair back from Soji’s skin, collect it into a handful just behind his ear so he can close his fingers on a fistful of hair, can tug the braid taut enough that Soji hisses and tips his head sideways to relieve the pressure. “How do you calculate that?”

“They were screaming for me,” Soji says, as if it’s perfectly reasonable. The smoothness of his voice is roughened a little by the effort of the performance and more by the angle at which Hijikata is holding his head. The other man maintains the pressure, keeps his fingers knotted into pale hair as he steps around Soji’s shoulder to stand in front of him.

The coat is hanging open in the front, the tie that usually keeps it in place unfastened under Soji’s stalled fingers. Hijikata reaches up, tugs the ends free so the heavy fabric slides sideways and crumples to the ground under its own weight.

“We were all on stage together,” he points out with perfect reasonableness. When he drags at Soji’s hair the other grimaces, his mouth pulling sharp around a hiss of reflexive pain, but his eyes spark bright and alive like they’re jewels catching the sunlight. Hijikata pulls harder, reaches up to rest his free hand at the top of Soji’s head to push him down more firmly, and after another put-on whimper of protest Soji starts to fold to his knees, if slowly enough to prove his independence in the action.

It makes Hijikata smile. The petulant resistance is so very Soji, so exactly the pointless rebellion he loves best from the other that it catches the warmth in his veins that is as much affection as it is arousal. Because in the end Soji  _is_  on his knees, always ends up on his knees, and even his pout doesn’t sufficiently undermine the anticipation Hijikata can see trembling in the fall of his pianist’s fingers.

“How do you know they were cheering for you?” he prompts as Soji’s weight comes down and Soji’s chin comes up so his face is cast in the shadow of Hijikata’s arm.

Soji’s mouth twists into a smirk, selfish pleasure with no invitation for Hijikata to share in it. Hijikata doesn’t mind; it’s easy to twist his handful of hair, to drag a pained flutter of shadowed eyelashes over Soji’s pretty eyes. He keeps the hold, forcing Soji’s head to tip against the pressure and keeping a breathless whimper of hurt under even the usual bite of his words.

“Who else would they be cheering for?” The arrogance is deliberate, though that doesn’t make it less sincere; when Soji opens his eyes and looks up through his hair there is a taunt there, turning the inherent beauty of his features sharp and threatening. “Do you think it was for  _you_ , Hijikata-san?”

Hijikata doesn’t rise to the bait. It’s familiar, it’s routine, he knows the steps to this dance as well as Soji does. “You talk too much.” It’s level, calm in his throat, sincere and honest rather than threatening. “You should really let yourself recover after a concert, Soji.”

Soji’s tongue slides over his lower lip, slow and as teasing as the twist of amusement lingering at his mouth. One of his hands comes up, his elegant fingers pushing up hard against Hijikata’s leg before he settles his hand to rest at the other man’s hip. His eyes don’t flicker from Hijikata’s face, his mouth comes open farther by a half-inch, a motion only granted meaning by the unblinking gaze he has locked on the other’s eyes.

“I can take it.” Soji’s voice is purring in his throat, low and resonant as if he’s on stage, as if he’s putting on a performance for an audience of one. The focus of his attention feels like a spotlight, sends Hijikata’s blood rushing as hot as if he’s stepped back out onto the stage. He doesn’t let his hold on silvery hair so much as loosen as he unclips his belt, unfastens the buttons holding the heavy cloth of his jacket shut. It gaps open without needing to be pushed aside, the clean lines of composure falling into disarray even before he reaches for the front of his pants. Soji still looks elegant, pulled-together except for the tangle of Hijikata’s fingers shoving his hair out of alignment, but that’s a short-term situation.

Hijikata’s pants come open under his fingers. Soji is still staring at him, his eyes not so much as flickering downward as Hijikata gets the fabric pushed aside and closes his fingers around his length, but his lips part wider, an overt invitation even before he tips his chin down so his lips are inches away from the heat of Hijikata’s cock. Hijikata shifts his hold on Soji’s hair, Soji’s fingers at his hip slide into a better grip, and when Hijikata rocks his hips forward Soji lets himself be pulled forward by the fist in his hair, catches the warmth of his lips and the soft sigh of his breath against and around Hijikata’s skin.

Soji still looks amused, looks like he’s on the verge of a laugh even as Hijikata presses himself farther forward to slide over the heat of Soji’s tongue. Soji’s blink is slow, heavy with suggestion; then he moves his tongue, deliberately licks up and across, and when he does laugh the other man can feel it shivering up into him through the point of connection. He lets his steadying hold on himself go, shoves the fall of violet hair back from Soji’s face with a second hand, and when he rocks his hips back Soji’s attempt to follow him in is stalled by the hold Hijikata has on his head.

“You look pretty with your hair back,” Hijikata says. His fingers catch into a better hold; he can feel the warmth of Soji’s damp hair, the lingering heat of the other’s adrenaline under his fingertips. Soji’s eyelids flutter when Hijikata thrusts forward, deep enough into his mouth that the other has to consciously think to get a breath. The fingers at his hip draw tight in almost-protest, but Soji doesn’t make any noise of actual negation, and when he opens his eyes again they’re going dark and out-of-focus.

Hijikata loves making Soji look like that.

“I like seeing you like this,” he offers, the words slow and deliberate and sincere. He’s setting a pace of his own, now, still holding Soji’s head still so the rhythm is solely his. Soji is breathing harder, now, air dragging hard through his nose while he presses his lips tighter around the slide of Hijikata’s cock into his mouth, and he’s gorgeous, his eyes are shadowed into focus and anticipation and Hijikata can feel the shiver of post-concert excitement still shaking through Soji’s fingertips at his hips. Soji is  _good_  at this, the soft pout of his lips is warm and just enough pressure to press against, the drag of his tongue offers the perfect counterpoint of friction to the thrust of Hijikata’s hips. When Hijikata looks down Soji glances up, his eyes smoky with awareness of the picture he makes with his hair a mess and his mouth damp and hot and  _willing_  as Hijikata’s length disappears past his lips.

Hijikata’s breathing harder now than he ever does on stage, the thrill of the concert only ever a warm-up for the thudding pleasure in his veins in these inevitable encores. Soji’s eyes are slipping out of focus, he’s starting to purr a hum or muffled words around the obstruction in his mouth, and the vibration is enough to tighten Hijikata’s fingers, the pattern of Soji’s braid falling apart under the pull.

“Hush,” he tries to say, but it comes out as a gasp, and Soji’s fingers go tense in expectation at his hips. “You -- should go easy on your throat, Soji.”

Soji’s laugh shudders around Hijikata, warm and delighted and amused, and when he flutters his eyelashes it’s deliberate, underlined by the way he sucks harder, licks slower, rocks his hips forward like he’s reaching for unoffered friction. Hijikata’s blood surges hot, the tension in his fingers drags tight as if Soji’s winding it higher by the motion of his eyelids; then Soji moans, a desperate little sound far back in his throat, and Hijikata  _knows_  he’s doing it on purpose, that the melting heat in his eyes is at least partially an act. It doesn’t make a difference, or not enough of one to stop him; his body shivers into heat, pleasure rolling out down his spine and into his fingertips until his hold on Soji’s hair goes slack. Soji keeps humming around the pulse of Hijikata into his mouth, his tongue dragging sensation in its wake until it’s nearly too much, until Hijikata has to catch a sharp breath and pull himself back. Soji grins as his mouth comes free, lets one of his hands go to ostentatiously drag the back of his hand across his mouth and swallow pointedly loudly.

“I don’t think that was very good for my throat,” he points out as Hijikata lets his hair fall back in front of his face, drops to a knee himself so he can shove Soji back by his remaining fist of hair. Soji falls obediently enough, though he musters a pout and a whine of pain as he goes; then he’s on his back, arms spread at his sides and legs far enough apart that Hijikata can rest his leg between the other’s, steady his balance while he shoves up the excess of clothing between his hands and Soji’s skin. Soji is laughing wordlessly, giggling uncontrollably until Hijikata gets his palm pressed in against the front of his pants to offer enough grinding pressure that the laughter fails into a gasp and Soji reaches out to grab desperately at Hijikata’s wrist.

“Hijikata-san,” It doesn’t sound like a plea, it sounds like an order, even dragged rough over post-concert vocal chords. “Do  _not_  tease me.”

“I’m not teasing,” Hijikata says evenly. His hands are still trembling, weak from aftershocks of pleasure, but he doesn’t need to have a particularly steady touch. Soji is painfully hard even through his pants, Hijikata’s not sure he even  _needs_  to get the other’s clothes open to get him off. But the fingers at his wrist are clutching dangerously tight, Soji’s rocking up off the floor in desperation; even as fast as Hijikata can get his other hand to fumble open the front of Soji’s pants the other is growling in frustration, raw and wordless. Then he has the fastenings undone, he’s sliding his fingers down against Soji’s flushed skin, and Soji’s  _burning_ , he’s radiating heat even before Hijikata’s hand touches the hard shape of his erection.

“Don’t stop,” Soji demands, anxious before Hijikata has even started to stroke over him properly. “Don’t  _stop_  Hijikata-san.”

“I’ll get your clothes dirty,” but Hijikata’s not stopping, he’s setting a pace that should be too fast but just makes Soji drop back to the floor and gasp like he hasn’t been breathing properly.

“I don’t  _care_.” There’s an unspoken curse there, an expletive in the tone if not the words, and as Hijikata speeds the motion of his hand words start to spill past Soji’s lips. “I don’t --  _fuck_  -- I don’t  _care_ , why would I  _fucking_  care, you’re an  _idiot_.” His hold is going less desperate, his fingers tightening and loosening in response to the slide of Hijikata’s fingers up over him like they’re feeling out the rhythm secondhand in his blood. Soji’s head is tipped back, his eyes shut so the dark of his lashes is spread out across his cheeks; he doesn’t look up, doesn’t open his eyes even when Hijikata leans in closer, exhales deliberately hard against the other’s throat.

“You’re terribly impolite.” His mouth catches at Soji’s throat, he twists his fingers sharply around the other’s length; he can feel the way Soji jerks in response, the catch of a groan under his lips. “Should I let you get away with that?”

A hand lands on his hair, catches into a fist of the strands. “Let me,” Soji gasps; Hijikata’s not sure if it’s an answer, or a incredulous question, or just a thoughtless echo, the sound is too shattered into a moan to distinguish emotion. Soji takes a breath, choking and loud even just on the inhale, and Hijikata lifts his head, shifts himself higher with total disregard for the tug of pain against his scalp. Soji’s eyes are so tightly shut he looks almost like he’s grimacing, his mouth is open around that desperate inhale; Hijikata can see his shoulders shift, can see the unthinking moan forming against his lips as Soji drops boneless and expectant against the floor. He strokes up hard, ducks his head in close, and his mouth is against Soji’s just as the other’s throat starts to work around a shuddering groan as he comes.

It’s  _still_  loud, even with Hijikata’s mouth catching most of the volume, and Soji’s fingers clench too-tight at Hijikata’s hair and wrist alike. Hijikata’s sure his scalp will ache for the rest of the night, thinks his wrist might show the imprint of delicate fingers for a week. But Soji’s shaking against him, Hijikata can taste the sound of Soji’s voice on his tongue and has the sticky warmth of Soji’s skin under his fingers, and he can’t care about anything else.

In the end, this is what he loves best.


End file.
